Making Our Way Back From Mars
by justmindy
Summary: Sherlock Holmes has been clean for six months, and he needs something distracting, preferably a case. Or perhaps the girl in the yellow jacket walking into that bookstore across the street. Pre-series. If you squint, there's angst and a plot, but mostly sexytimes.


_Hi! This fic was inspired by a dress on modcloth; if you search the website for bookstore browsing dress, you'll find it._

_Thank you to welovesherlolly, asteraceablue and onedayer for looking it over and ironing out the rough spots._ _And also holnnes for the dress and the idea!_

* * *

The cold concrete wall scratched against Sherlock's back as he smoked his third cigarette that hour. He needed a case. It was the only thing keeping him clean. Nine months since government thugs dragged him out of that hell hole in Brixton, six months clean. He wouldn't give Mycroft the satisfaction of losing this particular battle.

He turned to watch the sun setting over St. Paul's in the distance, selfishly taking the warmth of the day with it. He loathed the darkening shroud of dusk. Evening and her apathy triggered temptation. Sherlock took in a lung full of air, letting it out slowly. Night was the cruel consort of loneliness.

His attention swung forward again with movement out of the corner of his eye. She wore a mustard yellow peacoat with matching boots. Head down, she moved determinedly down the abandoned street, a ray of sunshine come to drive away the cold. As she moved closer, her brown hair wisping about her, Sherlock was able to make out more of her delicate features. A porcelain complexion and down-turned nose. When she turned into the old, used bookstore across the street, he wondered if freckles dusted her cheeks. He dropped his forgotten cigarette, snuffed it out, and ran into the Nook & Cranny to find out.

The bell above the door rang, and the smell of dust and old books and something sweet permeated his senses. The faded wood floor was solid beneath his feet as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting and finally settled on the yellow fabric hanging next to the door. She was familiar with the place, then. The attendant - no, owner - dozed behind the register.

Faint footprints in dust on the floor led him into the overflowing shelves. A few twists and turns, and then he found her, in a back corner, twirling her hair, reading an old edition of Gray's Anatomy. Sherlock could see now the simple knee-length dress she wore. A black top with white collar and buttons and skirt, covered in vivid flowers. He wasn't sure how he knew it fit her personality well.

He barely caught her intention to look up in time to snatch the nearest book he could find and open it, rolling his eyes when he realized what he grabbed.

"Interesting choice," he heard her soft, obviously amused, voice behind him, and then a shuffling of feet. Her small hands plucked the book from his, " 'The Joy of Sex' huh? Naughty boy. Looking for pointers?" She looked up from beneath long lashes. Chocolate brown eyes, and yes, freckles. He wanted to kiss each one.

"I - uh - it's - "

"I saw you smoking across the street. Those things will kill you," she smirked putting the book away. His brain finally caught up.

"Something I gather you don't mind much. Pretty scandalous for a medical student," he delighted in the surprise that widened her already doe-like eyes. She recovered quickly, though.

"I've always enjoyed the faint smell of tobacco, that's why I like this place so much." Oh, tobacco. that's what that sweet smell was. Sherlock filed the observation away for later, focusing back on her face to find her watching him intently. He leaned in, nudging the hair at her temple with his nose, cataloging her scent as well.

"Mmm, I agree. Sweet, sexy," he breathed against her neck. "Indulgent." His lips brushed against her pulse point, and he felt her shudder. "Who's naughty now?"

Taking control again, she pulled him back, and wrapped her arms around his neck and into his hair and _oh god _gently tugged against his curls to bring him down, crashing her lips onto his. His arms wrapped around her slight waist, bunching the fabric beneath his grip. She was on the balls of her feet, but he lifted her higher and spun her against the corner of shelves he found her in before. She bit his lower lip, he ground against her, she brought a leg up his thigh so that his erection was cradled against her, and he moaned loudly.

"Ssshhh," she playfully admonished, pulling away, then bending to remove her knickers. He fished the condom out of his wallet, then unzipped his jeans, tearing the package open carefully with his teeth. Before he could put it on, though, she slipped it out of his hands, then lowered to her knees. "I'll take care of this."

At the first touch of her small hands on his cock, Sherlock slumped forward, catching himself on the shelf. She seemed to understand the urgency of the situation, because she only stroked a few times before sliding the johnny on and standing up. "I don't even know your name," he wondered aloud, looking into her eyes

This time she silenced him with her mouth, bunching up her skirt around her waist. Sherlock grasped the back of her thighs, lifting her around his waist, settling her bum on the edge of the shelf behind her. She reached between them, but he blocked her hand, sliding his fingers up her thighs into her cunt, feeling her already ready but he couldn't resist teasing. Slowly running his thumb up and down her slit, he nibbled her collarbone.

"Damnit, just get on with it," she whispered through gritted teeth.

Sherlock chuckled against her skin, "Get on with what?" He slowed down just slightly, just enough.

"You know what!" She ground her pelvis against his crotch, and he groaned inwardly, but he wouldn't let her win this. He was in his element, now. He stopped his ministrations. She growled lowly in response.

She carded her fingers through his hair again, tugging when she came to the ends. "I want you to fuck me into this bookcase," she hissed into his ear while her other hand grabbed his arse. He delved into her mouth again, checking her balance against the shelf as he positioned himself at her entrance. Sherlock tasted her moan on his tongue as gravity helped him to be seated inside her in only two shallow thrusts; the third brought him home.

Her feet locked behind his back, her head falling back against the books. He nipped at her neck, rocking into her but speeding up after a few thrusts, letting the pleasure of the moment guide his movements. His teeth grazed her throat and she moaned. Taking the hint and changing his angle slightly for better leverage, Sherlock lightly bit her. If the resulting wetness around his cock wasn't indicator enough, she started talking.

"Yes that's right bite me. Fuck! Yes, harder." He sped up, biting hard enough to bruise. He was getting close, so he angled his fingers to thumb her clit.

"God I'm going to cum. I'm going to cum all over your hands and your cock. Do you like that? Do you want me to cum on you," she asked, pulling his head up to lock gazes.

"Yes, cum. Cum for me, please," he kissed her, pleading, and she obliged with ascending, breathy moans until she tensed and squeezed around him, prompting his orgasm soon after.

They held each other only briefly, their panting seemingly loud in the confined space. He softly kissed her shoulder in attempt to soothe the broken capillaries, then gently set her down. Rearranging their clothes was a quick affair, the tied off condom stashed in his empty packet of fags and discarded in a nearby wastebasket. He looked at her as she straightened her hair, checking herself over one last time. They both shuffled their feet.

"So," she began.

"What's your name," he begged.

One side of her mouth turned up in a bittersweet smile. "Look, you seem nice and I'm obviously attracted but I've dated… men like you and it never works out well for me so, I'm just going to go," she moved towards the front of the bookstore, but he grabbed her arm.

"Don't," but she had already shrugged out of his hold.

"I'm just going to go," and so she went. The bell above the door marked her exit, but Sherlock didn't follow her.

_Well._

He straightened.

_It was pleasant but the work is truly the most satisfying thing in my life._

He almost believed it. Sherlock inhaled deeply to fortify his defenses, smelling the sweet aroma that eluded him earlier. _Tobacco, she said. I wonder what variety. I wonder how many there could be?_

Sherlock stepped back onto the street, mildly surprised the itch he'd felt earlier was gone. The night suddenly seemed bearable. Tonight he'd file the evening's events into his mind palace, and tomorrow he'd head to Whitechapel. He knew an old tobacconist that owed him a favor for exposing his business partner's backhanded business practices.

Yes, perfect. He'd just solve this one puzzle and then he could delete the incident. He furrowed his brow as he rounded the corner to his flat.

_I just wish I'd known her name._


End file.
